What Is And What Should Never Be
by PaperFrames
Summary: Post-ep. Hammered. "In the years he's known her, coveted her in the secret confines of his most intimate thoughts, he's never seen her like this."


**A/N:** Just a two shot based on one of my favourite Liv centric episodes of SVU, Hammered.

General summary? Eh. Olivia's drunk. Elliot's Old. Serena's dead. Here we are.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own it.

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><p>What Is And What Should Never Be<p>

(Part I)

She's drunk. Shit-faced. So out of it that when he calls her name, she doesn't even lift her head in some semblance of a response. In the years he's known her, coveted her in the secret confines of his most intimate thoughts, he's never seen her like_ this._

Her lithe frame is inelegantly crumpled against her mother's headstone, her knees drawn upward as she leans on her side. Brown tendrils of hair hang haphazardly across her face in waves. The sweater she'd grabbed earlier that day when she'd left the station and lied to him about heading home is bunched up and strewn across her lap. In one of her hands she clutches a bottle of Belvedere vodka, in the other, her phone. His number is no doubt the last outgoing call.

He knows that she doesn't remember calling him, and from the looks of her, probably doesn't even remember where she's at or why she's here.

And he can only guess, hypothesize using those detective instincts he's honed so well the last two decades, as to why she's slumped against a dead woman's grave.

Pieces of the last week and a half float through his memory: Dalton Rendell. Audrey Hale. Sonya.

_Sonya. _The bitch with a pension for busting his balls for no other reason than she thought she could. The same bitch that reminded Olivia of her mother. Everything always came back to Serena with Olivia; the woman had been dead for nine years yet she was still Olivia's albatross, draped around his partner's neck and slowly choking the life from her.

Elliot sighs and runs a hand through his closely cropped hair, calculating his next move as his the heels of his oxfords dig into the sodden ground.

She's called him to play DD only one other time in the years he's known her. It'd been shortly after Sealview. Voice hoarse, words slurred, she'd called him for a ride home; too drunk to drive. They'd barely spoken the way home and the walk up to her apartment. Her almost inaudible 'thanks' and soft 'I'm sorry' were enough for Elliot then. She was still reeling from the assault she refused to tell him about and he wouldn't push. But today was different; he had a feeling he wouldn't need to push at all.

Gracelessly he plops down on her left, back against the tombstone, heels digging into the grass, and knocks his knee against her thigh.

"Liv." No response. Another knock. "Come on, Liv. The sun's setting."

She stirs then. Unintelligible sounds, more than likely expletives, roll from her lips.

"That's right, come on little Miss Sunshine."

In between muffled moans comes a despondent 'fuck me' and she shuffles in place until her back is flat against the tombstone. The bottle of vodka falls from her hand, along with her phone.

A low chuckle rumbles from Elliot and he's grinning, shaking his head at her intoxication, and quips, "I would, but I think you've made enough mistakes today."

His words are said in jest, though there's a slight truth to his tease. He would fuck her; he's thought about doing so on many occasions; wondered what she'd look like in the throes of passion. But it's neither the time nor place for salacious thoughts involving his partner, the woman who has and always will have a pull on him like no other. Instead, he uses the tease as a jab, a spark to ignite the fire that is Olivia Benson. She'd always been the one to keep the line between friend and lover; partner and husband thick and blue, so inappropriate humor this close to the grain would rile her. Or so he hoped.

She tilts her head until she can glare at him best she can; the skin under her eyes is swollen, and there's mascara stains running to her chin. "Fuckoff."

"You want me to fuck you or fuck off?"

"Elliot." There she is; grumbling, slurring, and drunk, but that's his Liv.

"Olivia."

"Shit. Who putsrocks in m'head?"

"You did. You and – " he reaches across her lap and picks up the clear bottle by the neck; the smell of vodka radiates from her skin, and he becomes acutely aware of just how bad the day's been for her to react this way. "Belvedere."

"Fuckin' hell." She's running her hands through her hair now. "Where 'm I?"

He sits the bottle of vodka down next to his black cap toes, "you don't remember, do you?"

Brown locks bounce back and forth in an attempt to communicate her confusion.

"Well," he hesitates, opening and closing his mouth. He wants to explain away her actions in a manner that won't ratchet up the self-deprecation he knows she prone to - her own worst enemy. Yes, she got drunk at her mother's grave, but the reasons behind why matter more than the action in itself. Hurt and memory is why she's here.

But he's never been good at verbal communication, especially not with her.

"After Sonya came by you took off for the night. I asked you if you wanted to grab a burger, but you said you had somewhere to be. Bout' forty-five minutes ago you called me." He chooses to omit the fact that she was in tears and downright hysterical when she'd called, attempting to help her save some face.

"I call d'you?"

"Yup."

"Fuck," her head falls back against the headstone once more and her eyes crack open. They flit around and Elliot can see the realization dawn then. Air dispels from her lips. "I came to see my mother."

"Ye-ah."

It's either the alcohol or the sheer weight of the guilt he knows is threatening to swallow her whole, but she collapses against his shoulder. Her coffee colored eyes fill with tears and she's silently weeping into his shoulder, crying. He lifts his arm and lets her fully cave into his large frame, and then pulls her into a half hug.

Whispering into her hair, he says, "let's get you out of here."

Together they clamber to their feet with Elliot supporting the majority of Olivia's weight.

With little to no protest Olivia mumbles, "Okay." Shaky legs push forward, and they head to the blue sedan.

/

Getting his drunk, semi-hysterical, and downright stubborn as shit partner into an elevator is a lot harder than he'd originally thought.

The curves he's imagined strumming with his fingertips, caressing, and kneading at some of its most intimate junctures are now pliable beneath his hands, but not in the way he's dreamt. She's sliding all about, squirming at his touch, and insisting –quite adamantly –that she can stand on her own. Two left feet and falling off boots included. The leaning tower of Pisa is nothing compared to the way Olivia sways to and fro.

He's practically dragging her and muttering all along the way, cursing his body for aging without his consent. It's not that she's heavy; though if he's being honest, her once athletic figure has filled out (rather nicely) in the years he's known her – it's that she's dead weight.

Dead, drunk weight that insists it can stand on its own.

When they're finally situated and the elevator jolts upwards, Elliot stands with her flush against him, trying his hardest not to become turned on by the fact that her bottom is pressed dangerously close to his lower half. One of her arms is thrown over his shoulders, and he holds her in place by keeping his arm wrapped around her waist.

He's dreamt of moments like this before, of having a giggling Olivia wrapped around him, but his – this isn't a dream, it's a nightmare. She's hurting and he can't take it away.

"El," there's panic in her tone then, and she grasps his forearm that's slung around her waist. "El, my mom. We've got to go back. I've got to save her. I can save her this time, El. I can. I can save her. I have to save her."

She claws at his arm in desperation, and Elliot thanks God for small favors; he's wearing long sleeves. His grip tightens around her middle and he pulls her into something that is suppose to resemble a hug and tries his best to hold her. They're almost cheek-to-cheek with Olivia's back pressed tightly against Elliot's chest, his head resting in the crook of her shoulder as he attempts to console her. She's then slipping, slipping, slipping from his grasp, her lithe frame sliding down his tight body.

He doesn't have to look at her face to know that she's crying – collapsing under the weight of memory and reality. He tightens his grip to prevent her from cascading to the ground and she reminds him of Kathleen in that moment. Hysterical, doe-eyed and lost in her own mind.

In his arms he's not holding his 43-year-old confident, heroic, selfless, and beautiful partner. He's holding Olivia Benson, the little girl who watched as her mother imploded, over and over again, powerless to stop her.

The elevator dings, signaling that they've reached the floor her apartment is on and aching muscles, damned, Elliot knows that he has to do.

They're hunching down, and she's softly sobbing.

"Come on, Liv, you can't save her . . ." he whispers softly, his mouth to her ear and he can feel how warm her skin is. She's on fire and he figures it isn't long before the 80-proof, 20-ounce bottle of Belvedere makes its reintroductions.

"No, I can, El. I can. I'll say goodbye 'hiss time. I'll save her. I can save her." She mutters over and over, with each syllable the smell of vodka waifs from her lips.

"You can't…"

She twists out of his hold and nearly slips to the floor, but manages to catch herself on the wall of the elevator. Climbing up it with wild eyes and her chest heaving, she shakes her head, trying her best to stand.

"I can save her!" Olivia states with conviction, red eyes glancing in Elliot's general direction. Her clothes are disheveled and her complexion a sickly yellow; body swimming in liquor.

"Olivia," he starts, using the tone he uses in times of negotiation. "You can't save her. She's - your mom," he pauses; unsure of how to state the words he knows she needs to hear. "Serena's dead, Olivia."

A visceral cry rips from his partner's throat then and she's falling to the ground; his instincts kick in before she has a chance to make contact with the floor of the elevator and he catches her.

She's passed out drunk.

Best he can, Elliot hoists them both into a standing position, one arm grasped tightly around her waist; he leans forward – just as the doors close, and hits the 'open' button. The rickety steel beneath them protests in annoyance, and the doors spring apart.

With creaking knees and scarred muscles, he lifts her into his arms until he's carrying her bridal style and exits.


End file.
